


Accidental

by Kalimyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:27:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quick kinkmeme fill: A fill in which Mycroft is desperate to pee. Whether he has an accident or not is up to the filler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently have some kind of addiction where I can't just scroll past a desperate Mycroft prompt.

Mycroft has three glasses of iced tea during his lunch meeting. The ambassador had highly recommended the sweet green tea, and it would have been rude to decline. They linger over pastries for a long while after the meal, speaking in careful, polite terms, all coached in subtext and layers of meaning. Mycroft loves this kind of negotiation. It’s polite and civilized, and there is cake.

After lunch, he is whisked away to give a status update to a few select Cabinet members. There are quite a few questions, and he answers them all smoothly, standing at the front of the room. He is poised and calm as some of the highest placed politicians in the country hang on his every word. After speaking for nearly two hours, the only sign of wear is his voice, which has begun to falter. He is offered water, and accepts it. The tall glass is drained quickly, and they urge him to have another.

His assistant is waiting for him in the hall as soon as he steps out of the conference room. “Call for you, sir,” she says. “This way, secure line.”

“Of course,” he says. He follows her to an office, where a secured landline is waiting. One of their contacts in Korea is on the phone, and he has a lot to discuss. Mycroft guides him through the next phase of their plan. He makes sure all the details are clear. He is patient and meticulous, and doesn’t miss a thing. It takes the better part of an hour.

By the end of the call, his posture has gone even more tense and upright than usual, but that is the only sign. When his assistant hurries him out of the building and into a waiting car, he doesn’t protest. If he asked her to wait for a moment, he’d have to tell her why and it’s not the kind of thing he admits to. He is Mycroft Holmes, after all. He is above such things.

“One more meeting,” she tells him, not looking up from her phone. “Should be brief. You’ll need the Donaldson file, here.” She hands him a folder. He glances over it. The car jolts slightly as they go over a bump, and he grits his teeth.

The meeting is, as promised, brief. Donaldson himself shows up, looking mulish at being dragged to a deserted car park. He hands over the photographs with minimal fuss. He curls his lip at Mycroft, and raises an eyebrow. “All right, then?” he asks. “Look a bit tense, you do.”

Mycroft looks down his nose at the man, and taps his umbrella disdainfully. “That will be all,” he says. “See that you’re on time in the future.”

Donaldson turns to leave. His footsteps echo hollowly on the concrete as he stomps away. Mycroft casts a furtive glance at a shadowed, empty corner. For a moment, he considers it. His hand is tight on the handle of his umbrella, knuckles white with strain.

His assistant appears from around a corner, still tapping at her phone. “Car is ready to take you home, sir. You’ll be picking up Inspector Lestrade on the way, he asked for a ride home with you.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft says, icy calm. He slides into the backseat and eyes the driver. Just the back of a head, anonymous, but the man could glance in the rear view mirror and see him at any time. He leans forward and presses a button, raising the privacy screen. He allows himself a moment, closing his eyes and sucking a breath in through his teeth. He grips his thigh, digs his fingers into the muscle, presses his knees together.

The car navigates evening traffic. Greg is waiting outside Scotland Yard, and hops in when the car pulls to the curb. He turns and waves to somebody before closing the door, then slides over. He gives Mycroft a kiss hello, and Mycroft attempts to kiss back.

“You okay?” Greg asks, leaning away to look at him.

“Fine,” Mycroft says. He can’t sit up fully, hunched over in the seat, and he can feel cold sweat on his forehead and all down his back. He rocks a little. 

“You’re shaking,” Greg says. He puts a hand on Mycroft’s back, smoothes it down his spine. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Mycroft says. The car jerks to a stop, caught in traffic, and he moans quietly. He clenches his fist hard enough to hurt, the sting a welcome distraction.

Greg gives him a hard look. “Seriously, what? Are you hurt? You look like you’re in pain.”

“I… if you must know, I’m…” Mycroft ducks his head. He can feel heat flooding his face, burning from his cheeks to his ears. “I was caught in meetings all afternoon. I haven’t had time for a break.”

Greg tilts his head to one side. He looks Mycroft up and down. “Really?”

Mycroft nods. He puts his hand on his thigh again, slides it a little higher. If he were alone in the car, he’d hold himself, squeeze and press and squirm, but he can’t. Not in front of Greg.

“Okay,” Greg says. He sounds somewhere between amused and disbelieving. “You couldn’t just tell someone you needed two minutes?”

“No,” Mycroft says. “It’s not… I don’t…”

Greg sighs. “You are still actually human, My. Believe me, I’ve checked.”

Mycroft says nothing. He sways on the seat, rocking back and forth. His breath comes in harsh, shallow pants. A muscle low in his belly quivers ominously and he has a hand shoved between his legs before he can think about it. The pressure against his cock feels good for a moment, but it’s not enough. His chest catches into something very close to a sob.

“Hey, all right,” Greg says. Amusement has fled, and he winces in sympathy. “I’m sorry, shh, easy. God, it’s really bad, isn’t it?”

Mycroft nods and bites his lip. Greg strokes his back again, pushes his sweat-damp hair off his forehead. Mycroft squeezes tighter, pressing his thumb hard over the head of his cock through his trousers. He whines low in his throat and shudders. A thin streak of heat slides down his thigh, dampening the material under his hand.

“I’ll ask the driver to pull over somewhere,” Greg says. “Hang on.”

“No,” Mycroft says. “That will take too long. We’re almost home.”

“You going to make it?”

“I…” Mycroft closes his eyes. Another burst of hot moisture escapes past the pressure of his fingers. He can feel more, so much more, held trembling on the brink. He’s had to go for _hours_ and they may be only ten minutes from home but he doesn’t have ten more minutes in him.

“It’s all right,” Greg tells him. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft says. His voice breaks over the words, and he holds his breath, striving for just a few more seconds of control.

“No, shh, don’t, it’s all right.” Greg kisses his forehead, wraps his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders and holds him.

“I can’t,” Mycroft says. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I…” He shivers, skin breaking out into goosebumps all over, chills coursing down his back. Another leak slips out, then more, a brief gush this time, warm and wet, soaking along the back of his thigh. There’s still so much more.

Greg puts his fingers around Mycroft’s wrist and pulls his hand away. Mycroft moans in protest. He’s shaking, every muscle held taut, breathing hard through clenched teeth. “It’s okay,” Greg murmurs in his ear. “You can let go, it’s all right.”

Mycroft lets out a long breath and turns, pressing his face into the hollow of Greg’s shoulder. Greg’s shirt feels soft and soothing against his flushed skin, and the hand stroking over the back of his neck is a welcome comfort.

His resistance crumbles and everything goes in a hot rush. He’s distantly aware of the warmth trickling down his legs, saturating his trousers, lapping at his skin. That is lost in the overwhelming wave of relief that follows, leaving him limp and dizzy. His head buzzes with blank noise and he feels light and hollow, fragile, like a bubble. Floating and easily broken.

Greg threads his fingers through his hair. “It’s fine,” he says. “Don’t worry, hush, it’s okay.”

Mycroft realizes he’s making sounds, little whimpering, breathy noises, and he snaps his mouth shut. “It’s not,” he says, his voice ragged. “It’s all over the seat, it’s, they’ll know, everyone will…”

“No, no, listen,” Greg replies earnestly. “This is a government car, it’s contracted, must carry fifty different people a day. The seats are dark, it doesn’t show, if they notice later they’ll never know who it was. Certainly won’t suspect you, of all people. You’re wearing black trousers and you’ve got that long coat, it’ll cover everything. We only have to get from the car to the flat and then you can clean up.”

Mycroft nods and hangs his head. He’s still flushed bright red from his neck to the roots of his hair. Greg cups his chin in one hand and lifts his face, then kisses him, high on his cheeks, under his eyes. His lips are blessedly cool. He keeps going, soft kisses all over his face, until finally he kisses him on the mouth and Mycroft kisses back, sweet and slow. He’s exhausted, his whole body shaking with the strain, the constant effort he’s exerted to make it through the last few hours.

The car comes to a stop, and the engine turns off. Mycroft doesn’t wait for the driver to open the door. He gets out quick, shutting the door behind him, and Greg gets out on the other side. Mycroft draws his long coat around his body. His trousers are sodden and growing cool against his skin, but when he risks a glance down he sees that Greg was right--nothing shows.

He walks into the flat, his feet squishing damply in his shoes, and straight into the bathroom. Greg is close behind him. He strips (Greg wordlessly holds out a bin bag for his soaked trousers and pants) and gets into the shower. He turns the water on as hot as he can stand it and then just lets it pour over him, pounding against his shoulders and running in sheets down his skin.

After a few minutes, Greg climbs in behind him. He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s waist and presses a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft leans into his touch and takes a deep breath. “You keep saying that,” he says.

“I mean it.”

“I believe you do.” Mycroft turns enough to kiss him, to nuzzle the line of his jaw and breathe in the scent of his shower warmed skin. “Thank you.”

*


End file.
